


I Had a Choice

by AspiratingAnxiety



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Don't you Fucking Judge Me., F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:22:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AspiratingAnxiety/pseuds/AspiratingAnxiety
Summary: All of the Damian quick fics, headcanon, and imagine requests are here. A lot of them (the majority) involve Damian being 18+, though none are NSFW as of December 2018.





	1. Up Early (Imagine Request)

**Author's Note:**

> Dami is a facinating and complicated character, when done right by authors. He's difficult to write, and the whole point of fanfiction is honing your creative skill.
> 
> Do not message me about the morality of aging up Damian Wayne. He's above 18 in multiple story lines and media formats. 
> 
> Kindly just fuck right off with that.   
> Thanks.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you up so early” with older! Damian Wayne:)  
> -anonymous  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Babe! Happy to get this imagine written for you, sorry that I didn’t get to it last night. It sort of turned into silly, steamy fluff? I dunno. I hope you like it, and please be sure to let me know!

 

It had become a game between the two of you shortly after moving into the apartment. When you woke to an empty bed, you’d listen. Drawing in steady, silent breaths, you would sharpen your dreary consciousness and pinpoint Damian’s location within your home. 

The living room today. Muted, steady ticks ricochet off of the hall’s drywall. The sound is too dull to be coming from the desktop in the office, and so you deduce that he is most likely on his laptop, sprawled over his preferred section of your low-backed leather sofa. The furious clicking is organized into a rhythmic pattern of stops and starts that indicate an open chat window.

You glance at the calendar resting atop the bedroom bookshelf. 

It’s Wednesday. That means Dick is the one coordinating the office. If it’s really Dick he’s talking to, you may actually have a shot at victory.

You slide out of bed on your belly, envisioning yourself to be a sleek little seal, noiselessly disappearing into the depths of a cold, still ocean. Biting your lips together in concentration, you do your best to ignore the chill of the early air as it skims along your bare arms and the strip of flesh exposed at your lower back by your contortion. You crawl along the plush carpet, remaining close to the ground so as not to cast a reflection in the wide windows lining the breakfast nook. 

It is bleary outside, rainy gray with hints of blue-teal and steely lavender gathering through the east facing panes. The sun is just heading up, shrouded in spring storm clouds that keep threatening a deluge by spitting a hesitant shower over the city every hour or so. 

The cool gleam of the laptop’s screen is the only artificial light source in the main room. Every corner is shadowy and still. Even Titus, usually so attentive, is snuggled into the pet mattress. A neat curl of dark fur, fast asleep. 

This is it! Your big chance…

His reflection is crisp in the sliding glass door. You have a safe view of the image lying flat against the edge of the hallway, tummy to the floor, looking beneath the body of the couch. Damian is on top of the far cushion, long legs curled into a lazy, noncommittal lotus. The portable computer is balanced on his feet, and the stitch between his brows confirms that he is, in fact, quite preoccupied.

A few more painfully slow, fluid movements later, you are poised on your toes in a crouch just behind him. 

You hesitate, arms raised, hands curled into talons. 

You have to wait for the perfect moment to pounce. Once you get away with this, he’s going to be on high alert for  _at least_  another year. 

You can’t waste it! 

You decide to save your lunge until he moves to tag the enter key with his pinky, hoping to cause some kind of typo or deletion that inconveniences him just enough to add to the satisfaction of the whole thing without actually endangering his professional image. 

Your muscles are bunching, stiff and achy so soon after waking. His typing continues steadily though, and you clamp down on any wobbling or itch to redistribute your weight.

The anticipation is killing you. You pull in a hearty lungful of cold air, eager to release a shrill cry as you playfully claw his shoulders. The exhilaration of your win is nearly upon you. The smug, ripe flavor of premium gloating is sweet on the tip of your tongue. 

You vault, too keen for another agonizing moment of patience. 

Before your legs are half straight or a peep leaves your lips, Damian addresses you: “And why are  _you_ up so early?” he snarks, not bothering to so much as glimpse away from his computer. 

It feels as if your very soul rushes out of you with the intensity of the petulant yowl that bursts from your chest. You fall to your knees behind him, sinking your fingers into the crest of his preferred hairstyle and giving it a tug.

Nothing too painful, just a bit of sharpness to wipe that snide little smirk off of his stupid, pretty face.

It does not work. His smile widens, toothsome and self-satisfied. He leans back, arching until his head is dangling precariously off the back of the sofa so that he can look you in the eye where you rest, wilted on your haunches. 

“You have all the stealth and grace of an inebriated goose, beloved.”

A growl rolls out of your throat in response. Your fingers are still in his hair, and you tighten your grip as if to pull yourself up by the hold. “Ah, shuddup,” you pout, rising onto your knees again, careful not to actually tug at all.

Moving your hands softly, you cup the underside of his jaw as you lean forward. The tip of your chin is at his nose when you dip in for a chaste peck to the bottom portion of his grin. Spanning your hands over his displayed throat, you give him another kiss that lingers more sweetly. Your nails catch on his stubble as you ever-so-gently trail them across his skin. 

A soft hum drifts out of Damian, buzzing against your fingertips. What you can see of his smile has gone slack, and you’re sure that his eyes have fluttered shut. The mild vocalization is an unintentional tell that he gives every time you’ve got him good n’distracted. 

You think of the evil things that you could get away with here, idly continuing to trace the manicured edges of your fingernails back and forth over his neck. 

A scratch. 

A nip. 

A pinch.

Something to make him pay for such a bitter disappointment before the sun is even properly in the sky. 

Damian pushes himself further toward you before you settle on an appropriate recourse, foot outstretched and rooted against the coffee table for leverage. One moment, you’re both in a relatively even, centered position. In the next, his jawline is scraping down your left cheek. His chin is below yours, digging up into the tender underside of your jaw as one of his arms cranes over the back of the sofa to urge you closer together.

He presses a kiss of his own to your collarbone, just to the left of the subtle notch that rounds into the hollow at the center. His kisses are always hungrier than yours. Firmer and long-lived with a suckling pull as he releases whatever skin he’s focused on at the time. 

You’re flush and swept up in the exciting sensation, less invested in revenge as tufts of hair from his head whisper against the parts of your chest exposed by the wide neck of your tank top.

Just as you commit to the idea of hauling him completely over the back of the couch in order to dodge any more inverted kissing, Damian’s foot slips. 

His chin slams into yours with enough force to snap your mouth shut as he falls flat on his back into the deep-set seat, kicking the poor laptop across the floor as he flails for balance. 

You crumble, cradling your jaw with a hand pressed firmly over your mouth to keep from crying out. 

Damian leaps the couch himself then, swearing and taking the full weight of his body hard on his knees as he fumbles to lift your face. 

“Let me see, let me see!” he demands, prying your hand away from your mouth. 

“M’okay,” you mutter through clenched teeth, hoping beyond hope that there will be no blood and only minimal bruising later. 

He huffs, pushing air through his teeth in a hiss. “It’s my fault. I can’t believe I did that. It’s all my  _fault_.” He’s beet red, shaking his head in mortified disbelief.    

A giggle bubbles out of your mouth, the ache throughout the lower half of your face lessening rapidly. He stares at you, eyes narrowing sharply as your giggle turns into a fit of full, rolling laughter.

“I can’t believe you did that, either. At least when  _I’m_ uncoordinated, I just blow the chance to beat you at your own game.” You take a break to chortle through your nose. “When you go, you go all in, huh sweetheart?”

His face is sour now, flushed and blotchy with embarrassment and irritation. “You’re going to need to ice your face,” he says, getting to his feet and heading toward the kitchen. 

“Hey, whoa!” you call, clambering upright and lurching violently as you wheeze and snicker. “Check the laptop first, why don’t you, you klutz?”


	2. Keepsakes (Headcanon Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> damian for 21? aka the keepsakes one  
> -jayybirds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for the opportunity to fill a request for you! Thank you so much @jayybirds. I hope I don’t let you down.

Surprisingly, Damian is the absolute worst about souvenirs and keepsakes. That’s not to say he’s bad at selecting them or holding onto them. In fact, it’s just the opposite!

During his early life in the League, it was made clear that one was meant to take pride in their belongings and appearance in the same way that one is proud of their skill sets and intelligence. However, emotional connection to items beyond the shallow satisfaction of ownership or proficiency was frowned upon as materialistic and superfluous.

Even still, in the dim memories he possesses of his infancy spent in the plush, vibrant halls of his mother’s quarters in the desert stronghold, he remembers the few items that she cherished above all others: the courting gifts from his father.

An antique book, bound in green leather and embossed with gold work. A copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. A joke between them. She’d teased his father about his reluctance to pursue her physically, and prodded the issue by dubbing him the knight of purity from Arthur’s round table. Throughout the story, Sir Gawain steadfastly attempts to deny a fae lady’s bold seductions. She read the tale aloud to Damian in the traditional old English penned with heavy, ink embellishments throughout the tome. He can still remember the dusty, mineral smell of the pages and the warmth of Talia’s lap.

The next was a necklace, less stately than the majority of the jewelry that his mother preferred to wear. A delicate lattice of thin gold-work, woven to embrace the base of a woman’s neck and spill whimsically down over her clavicle in a tapered bib of twinkling filigree. She did not wear this necklace out of her chambers. It was paired with her night clothing and casual garb. Damian’s remembrance of this piece is not as distinct as his notions of the book. He did not see it again after being removed from the nursing wing and placed in his own quarters.

The final item that Talia cherished was a nameless bottle of perfume. It was custom, she explained once, wistful and in only the company of her toddler. Exotic flowers, musk, clean high notes of pine and something sharp and spicy. The smell was very distinct, though Damian’s introduction to it had been but brief and far back in his development. He could not recall the shape or color of the bottle, but he knew the smell thoroughly. Talia wore it only when there was a chance that she would be in the company of his father. Back when Damian only knew Bruce through photos and stories, the smell of that perfume angered and frightened him.

Even in the days before he understood the moral quandary that had alienated his parents or the tint of semi-delusional falsehood that Talia used to glorify what precious little remained of a relationship that had died years before his conception, the fact that he was kept secret from his father had communicated these hard truths to his young, perceptive mind. The scent so cherished by his mother began to announce, not only that she was going to see his father, but that she was being somehow deceitful about him. This negative feedback response grew in Damian quickly, and the smell became a stink that exploited the weakness of his insecurities and fear of inferiority where Bruce was concerned.

Damian learned his keepsakes behavior from Talia more than anyone else, and each thing he deems worthy of his maintenance is treated with the same sacred reverence as Talia extended to the items that served as the paltry links she possessed to her beloved.

Unlike Talia, however, Damian reveres so much more in his life now that it is lived in the open with his father, brothers, and friends. He hordes possessions. Not messily or with absolute abandon, he has a strict standard of orderliness, after all.

Every collar ever worn by Titus as he transitioned through puppyhood.

The ticket stubs from the first state fair that Dick had forced him to attend, and all of the subsequent tickets since.

The batarang he pinched off of his father’s belt during their first meeting.

The tie of his first school uniform.

A gold tooth he knocked out of a drug dealer’s mouth his first solo patrol as Robin.

The awkward, but appreciated birthday gift that Tim bought for him the year he turned 10 in spite of multiple attempts to take Tim’s life in the months proceeding the gift.

A mangled mouse corpse suspended in formaldehyde, preserved by his own hand after Pennyworth the Cat dropped it on his shoe and stared up at him with pride.

A bobby-pin Stephanie used to pick his desk drawer to demonstrate his lack of in-bedroom security.

A 7 month old gumball that Jon cranked out of a vending machine and offered to him. He took it, in spite of internally refusing to put the neon sucrose concoction anywhere near his mouth. It looks exactly as it did the day it came to be in his possession even having been in a fire, subsequently doused by water, and licked a few times by Pennyworth the Cat. As far as Damian is concerned, these facts support his decision not to ingest the confection.

So many things, so many inconsequential bits and pieces tucked into designated spaces within his bedroom. Each maintained with the care and consideration Damian struggles to communicate to the people he esteems in his life.

Damian Wayne is, by far, the worst Wayne kid when it comes to collecting keepsakes. You’d never guess it by the tidy surfaces in his room, but several shelves in his closet and all of his available private drawer spaces are filled with souvenirs.


	3. Your Mom's in Town (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know this is getting ridiculous but i keep thinking of perfect characters for perfect prompts for example 'I really wish you'd told me your mother was in town' with DAMIAN i mean i'm yelling can't wait to see what you do with it haha  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that all of the asks in my inbox have been waiting awhile, and I think I’ve just started to accept that I am going to have to shorten my responses in order to get to everything. Sorry if this isn’t quite what you were expecting. As always, just let me know! 
> 
> A piece that’s a bit fluffy and also a bit sad. Lots of headcanon about Talia and the way that she’d interact with an older Damian who has ultimately decided to reject the restrictions and expectations that his mother had enforced upon him. The reader is the significant other caught in-between.  
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and I hope you like it.
> 
> Taglist: @sweetspiderboy, @nxttime, @possiblyelven

 

You stare at the woman in front of you, utterly struck by the air of immeasurable grace and beauty that seemed to ease from her as naturally as an expended breath. The severity of your situation might be intimidating if not tempered by the peculiarity of of it all and her clear delight in meeting you. Despite her rigid spine and the impassivity of her features, her movements are soft and the glances she passes your way are girlishly fleeting. Shy, almost.

This further calms you, and emboldens you to pursue some manner of conversation. However, neither of you seems to know where to begin.   

It is an effort to force your eyes away from her face. You fear making a rude impression, but the similarities between your significant other and this woman who is so clearly his mother are as startling as they are fascinating. They also do not appear to end with her manner and expression. Intently, you observe her tapered fingers spoon one heaping measure of dark sugar into the fine porcelain vessel before her. The crystalline ring of her silver swirling the sweetener throughout her steaming teacup is the only sound at the table as a smile overtakes you. 

The sudden change intrigues her. Notions that she might be feeling nervous or out of place gain support as her gaze darts between your mouth and eyes. 

“He takes his tea that way too,” you explain. “One over-full spoon of brown sugar, hot enough to blister. Sometimes lemon, when the mood strikes him.”

Talia hums, fond reminiscence dancing in her eyes as she silently rests her spoon on her saucer. “My father takes tea this way as well.” 

Her words are accented and spoken with a voice as rich and deep as the murky black tea in your cup. You are encouraged by her acquiescence, and the way she sounds is the way you had imagined she’d sound. Lovely and mysterious and motherly… 

“I’m sure preferences toward tea are not the only things you share.”

She doesn’t look at you this time, simply smiling down at her beverage as impressions of sadness and heavy contemplation sweep away the easy affection that had been clear just a moment before.

“That face for example,” you bob forward, shooing the billows of steam from your cup out of your way as you catch her eye. “He makes that face when his thoughts are too busy for my words, but he thinks I’ve said something kind.”

“Do you say kind things to him often?” 

Her interest is tender and genuine, so you share honestly. “I try. He does not always respond well to kindness, and it is not always easy to be kind to him.” 

Her mouth seems to dry, and the left-hand corner tugs down. She sips her tea and sighs, schooling her countenance back into impassivity. “My son can require patience of a tenacious ilk.” 

“Not so often, only sometimes.” You smile brightly again, thinking of lemon in his tea. “When the mood strikes him.” 

She hums again, a tinge of amusement in the sound, and swallows another mouthful of scalding tea. You are just about to reach for your own cup when a jarring buzz emanates from a device perched on the far corner of the table. Talia glances at it, and puts her teacup down. 

“I apologize for the rude presence of a cellular phone at our proper tea. Its necessity, however, is undeniable.” Her intent gaze falls upon the audacious engagement ring prominent on your left hand. “I apologize too for using deceit in order to arrange our overdue meeting. Another unpleasant necessity.”

“I should have known he’d never ask me to a place like this. It honestly wasn’t too much of a surprise to see that someone else was waiting. This encounter has not been unpleasant for me.” 

“Does he not take you to such places? A cursory view of your social media footprint indicated that this was just the sort of location to pique your interest…”

“He prefers to have tea at home. He associates it with relaxation and casual settings. Public is not a place for the discussions he likes to have over tea, and tearooms themselves irritate him. So, no. He does not take me to such places. I go on my own or with friends.”

She listens raptly to your words, hungry for details.

“Alas,” she says, looking again at the insistent cell phone. “Our time to converse is nearly at an end. The pleasantries have been nice, but I’ve truly come to ask only one thing.” She looks you dead in the face, and you read the threat swelling in her eyes. “Do you love my son?”

You do not blink, the brutal honesty of your answer coming more easily than you would have imagined. “I love him terribly, and with so much of myself that it makes me afraid.”

“Afraid?” 

“Terrified that in his absence I will never be whole again.”

Another hum, low in her throat. Quiet and mournful. The acknowledgement of a shared fear.

A shared pain.

Your tea is snatched from the table and thrown to the ground. The intricate china cup shatters loudly, and droplets of the hot tea hit like burning shrapnel up the portions of your leg only covered by thin nylon stockings.

“We are leaving!” Damian snarls. His hand is held out for you, but his glare is trained on the radiant, sad countenance of his mother.

“I really wish you’d told me your mother was in town,” you say, rising as gracefully as you are able and ignoring the offended huffs from the nosy patrons around you.

Before he can haul you away, you reach down and set your palm over Talia’s. You resist the insistent tug Damian gives your arm. “You don’t have to trick me the next time you want to talk. I had a lovely time, and I’m sure you have my phone number.” 


	4. Please Stop (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry” with older damian please? you're such a fantastic writer ily  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sure thing, babe~   
> Also, also! I love you too. 💕    
> Have some hurt/comfort for supper, y’all. Eat up.  
> Warnings for some body horror and swearing. 
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy, and @thepuckishrogue

 

He can’t believe his eyes. You were in the middle of a perfectly civil, adult conversation about limiting your exposure to less than savory research subjects required for select cases, and then you just burst into tears! He predicted some resistance when your ability to remain objective was directly challenged: offense, anger, biting commentary about the failings you’d found in the work of himself or his brothers.  

Not  _sobbing_.

They are quiet, breathy lamentations that you attempt to stifle by curling in on yourself and burying your face in your palms. Your hunched shoulders shake with the efforts of the last four and a half hours spent detailing every move made by the human trafficking ring as well as what it took to keep from completely falling apart and wailing like a toddler. The whole of your torso buckles and heaves near silently. All the while you seem to shrink inward, compressing yourself into a tighter and tighter knot of misery in an attempt to either disappear or regain control of yourself.        

Horrified by the sudden nature of your outburst more than anything else, Damian crouches down in front of your computer chair, setting his weight on a knee and the pad of one foot. He reaches forward slowly. One big hand spans over your far thigh, and the other grips your nearest forearm.

His hold is slick with sweat, and it feels like he’s made of hot coals against your frigid, overly air-conditioned skin. 

“Hey,” he says, speaking low in his throat. His voice is a hum. “Hey, it’s not that you’re incapable. We all agree that you’re an excellent set of eyes to add to any case. I just think that-”

“I’m weak!” you spit, still hiding your watering eyes behind a mask of fingers.

Damian’s grip tightens, and you can hear his irritation in the sharp articulation of his words. “That is not what I was going to say.” 

“…but it’s true.”  

He doesn’t know how to respond in a way that will not cause further agitation or heartache, and so he gently tugs you out of the chair and settles his weight flat against the floor. You come willingly enough, allowing him to position you comfortably in his lap like a rag doll. You resist only when he attempts to pull your hands away from your face so that he can look at you properly. 

Not seeing the whole of your reaction expressed in your eyes throws off his game considerably. Typically, Damian goes to great pains adjusting his approach to your casework so as not to offend. You are the only person awarded this luxury, and a view of your candid feedback is incredibly necessary for all of the fine tuning.   

He knows a few things by your voice and body language. Your shame is loud despite your near inaudible admission. You are exhausted, sagging against him practically non-responsive. You are also not crying anymore.

Damian hurts for agreeing to be the one to tell you that his father pulled you from the trafficking case mid-investigation. He marks that, though you are no longer audibly weeping, you are still incredibly upset.

He and Titus share a tired look, as the dog’s attempts to soothe you with a cold nose to your ear had gone utterly ignored. 

Nice try, friend. 

If Damian had a free hand, he’d pat the good boy for his efforts. 

Instead, he tightens his arms around you and takes a deep breath. The additional physical pressure seems to do the trick, comforting as he’d intended. You drop your hands to your sides with abandon, your knuckles hitting his denim covered knee with a dull  _thud._  

“He just left them in that shipping container, Damian. It’s 90° outside, and he just left them in there. They  _cooked_ … like…. they cooked  _together_.” 

Oh, he saw the pictures. They were ugly, but they were far from the ugliest thing he’d ever seen done to human corpses. 

He refrains from saying this, of course, allowing you to continue.

“Men and women, mothers and children,  _people_.” The revulsion spills out of you with a new wave of bawling, and Damian restrains himself from groaning. 

You’d only just stopped…

“They were people, Damian. They just wanted a better life. A safer one. And he roasted them in their own piss, and shit, and vomit. That’s all that’s left of them, now. We don’t have the records to identify any of their remains. All of them, every one of those  _people_ will never be anything more than a stew of filth and decay.”

“Stop,” he begs hoarsely, as taken aback by your morbid conclusions as he is by the gaining momentum of this new onslaught of tears. He thoughtlessly shakes his head, making you look at him with a firm hand to your jaw. “Please, stop.”

“Your dad’s right. I can’t keep looking at things like that. I’m not strong enough to see those things! To know that there are people, existing,  _right now_ , that hurt others that way, and keep living my own life. I’m just not.” You are quivering again, and a heart-wrenching sob cracks sharp enough to straighten your shoulders. “I can’t do it. I’m weak, I’m too weak, I jus-”

“It is not about weakness!” he snaps, cutting off your derailing train of self-pity. 

Damian regrets his harshness instantaneously. But to see you this way, in so much pain over strangers who should have been wiser than to trust as they did? 

He closes his own eyes against the view of your wounded expression. He puts his head to your flush, tear-stained cheek, internally cringing as he realizes just how tightly he had gripped your chin. 

“Do not cry anymore.  _Please_ , do not cry. As you hurt for the suffering of others, I hurt for yours. I cannot stand to see you suffer, and you do not have to look at these things anymore.”   


	5. Preoccupied (Imagine Request with some Headcanon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heya!! can i please request 'i can't stop thinking about you' with older!damian wayne?? like early twenties damian, i love that salty boi lmao, thanks honey!  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the ask, hun! I appreciate you whole-heartedly. First though, an absolute metric TON of un-requested headcanon! 
> 
> Mine is not a clueless characterization of an Older!Damian. While I find those fics enjoyable and a form of fluff that’s extra cottony sweet, I cannot logically support the headcanon that Damian doesn’t understand human interaction. He’s too intelligent, and too adaptive to refrain from picking up the more personable qualities in his family and friends if for nothing more than developing the necessary demeanor required for manipulating people in a civilian setting as Damian, rather than Robin. 
> 
> Furthermore, I argue that he avoids most pleasantries and intellectual intimacies because he doesn’t have the patience to navigate the intricacies of interpersonal relationships unless there is an immediate, direct payoff. His fundamental years growing from an infant into a child (where instinctual sympathy/empathy is rewarded and nurtured) were spent in an environment that farmed other human beings as though they were resources.
> 
> Of course, having lived over a decade away from the League, Damian knows well the importance of being genuinely connected to others. He engages freely in friendships and familial affection to the degree which he feels most comfortable, but actually articulating romantic engagements that are meant to last for more than a handful of hours are… not on the top of his list of priorities?
> 
> He thinks it’s stupid to refrain from pursuing people who physically intrigue him, as sex is on the fundamental level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. It’s sidled right in there beside eating and drinking, but emotionally connecting to sex partners and keeping them around too long afterward?  
> 
> Meh.
> 
> As far as he’s concerned, it’s removing every nail from a house that you’re just gonna’ burn down anyway. 
> 
> Like… wtf is the actual point?
> 
> He’s living at least three full lives as a civilian attending college (I feel like Dick and Bruce would both badger him into it, and his friends would tease him about all these doctorates he should have until he’s just like yeah, fine. Fuck you guys. I’m going to get my first Ph.D before I’m 22. Fight me. Physically.)  and robin-ing around Gotham. He’s doing his damnedest to remain active in the family company, because Fuck Drake (still salty about Bruce’s will? Why, yes. Yes, he is.) and also The Titans, Yo. More global missions focused on a variety of issues, all coordinated through the Justice League and delineated by him.   
> 
> He’s just a real busy guy, okay? Trying to pursue emotional romantic connections and cultivating additional friends to the ones who’ve suffered through puberty with him are just not a part of things for my early 20s Damian.
> 
> That is… until he encounters you 😉  
> 
> Aaaand now that I’ve finished with my turn on the soapbox, I hope you like the fluff!
> 
> Note: This is a female reader insert imagine/fic request. The reader is detailed quite heavily as far as physical and behavioral description, as I couldn’t help but imagine one of my very favorite OCs in this particular circumstance. Forgive me, and just skip over the details if you’d rather not have your own image altered or distracted for this particular narrative circumstance. Here is a link to my pinterest board for her, if anyone is interested: https://www.pinterest.com/bethschmdit/winnie/  
> 
> Warning for size sensitivity. For reference, by the way, reader’s about a size 12. Maybe 14. Large in women’s shirts, medium in men’s, depending. Google Iskra Lawrence, y’all. 
> 
> I just feel like Damian, of all people, would be The Most Judgmental Ho about the fitness level of others. Especially the partners that he considers pursuing. He’s not mean to her or anything, just considers it as he feels his crush starting up. Thought I’d throw in a warning. I didn’t tag plus!reader because a size 12 is… well, average. I work for a plus size retailer (Torrid), and lemme tell ya’, 12 is our size 0. However, I feel like twenty something Damian goes for ultra-fit supermodels rocking a size 6 at 5′11″.    
> 
> Taglist: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy, @thepuckishrogue. 

 

 

Damian first notices you in the university computer lab. Usually, he would not deign to step foot in the library’s pitiful collection of battered, laggy PCs. Unfortunately though, the paper he’s got due in 20 minutes scattered with the breeze as he casually clothes-lined a purse snatcher on campus with nothing more than his forearm and a firm stance. 

He attempts some meditative breathing as he contains the overwhelming desire to viciously smash every 2013, Windows 8, piece of shit around him. 

It should take absolutely no more than three seconds for a browser to open. 

Absolutely. 

No. 

More. 

It’s the smell of you that first draws his interest. There are only a few other sorry individuals slumming it with the pestilence ridden keyboards, and Damian expects the first breath he takes to smell of unwashed freshman, procrastination, and Doritos. Instead, he inhales a lungful of something woodsy and spicy, but still refreshing with clean high notes. 

Bitter citrus, maybe? 

He deduces that it’s a male cologne by the purposefully bold blend of the scent’s components. So, obviously, he glances down the row of desecrated office equipment expecting to see another man. 

It’s a fine cologne. A look at the wearer should help him later identify the brand, or at least direct him toward a price range. 

His gaze lands confusedly on a small, plump figure swathed in a dramatically over-sized pink sweater.  For a moment, he cannot connect all of his sensory information. He attributes this lull in reasoning to the early hour and his overconfidence in assuming that a man would be wearing the masculine scent.  

Freckles and an upturned nose with lips full enough to appear either swollen or as though you haven’t finished growing into them. Heart-shaped face and cheeks still round with baby fat, rosy and flushed from the cold outside. Pale, delicate hands with perfectly manicured white tips on every nail and an additional smattering of freckles. 

These features are of middling interest, as the cutesy, excessively feminine never appealed to him. 

But the hair? 

A well-cared for tumble of messy, natural waves that undulate between a rich brown base and the deliciously ruddy honey-blonde created by the sun in such warm brunettes…

_Mmm._

The fragrance you’re wearing hits him again when you span your thumb and ring-finger over the crown of your head, fluffing a handful of glossy, voluminous hair. Re-parting your loose curls, you pull a curtain of them from left to right. This all but blocks his view of your face. 

He realizes only after you lean uncomfortably away from his general direction that you intentionally hid your face because you’ve caught him staring. He casually turns back to his screen, unable to resist a few attempts at discreetly side-eyeing you. 

Overweight and petite aren’t for him. The stature of your frame paired with the clothing you’ve chosen to wear and the particular disbursement of your body fat render a childish effect. Additionally, you’re likely wearing your boyfriend’s cologne. So, _especially_ not his type.

Damian’s internet storage is finally accessible, and he’s thankful to (at last!) find a finish line to this morning’s tedious deviation from routine. 

Only, it doesn’t end. 

For the next five hours, droning from class to class, the only thing he thinks about is the round little brunette wearing men’s cologne. It takes nearly all of his willpower to wait until he’s home before poking into your school files searching for a name and the answers to other such mundane questions. With Titus’ head propped on one knee and his laptop set up on the coffee table in the den, Damian sifts through all of your digital information.  

Impressive grades. Wealthy family. Double major. 

Music and psychology?

Odd… 

Pianist. Eccentric lineage tied to the illegal activities of artifact smuggling and bootlegging. Always donates to shelter efforts.

He stares at the last piece of information, at once furious and thrilled to see a veritable cherry to top the series of shared interests and characteristics between the two of you. He looked you up to put out the fire, goddamn it. Sake a curious thirst and move on with his thoughts. There are things he needs to do today. They don’t involve getting hung up on a chubby girl-woman who’s most likely already in a relationship.

He snaps his laptop closed, the sudden harshness of the sound causing Titus to jump. Damian takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and giving his dog a good rub between the ears. He prioritizes his list of responsibilities and does his best to utterly compartmentalize this stubborn, unexpected interest. 

It doesn’t work. For the rest of the week, from Monday when he spotted you to Friday, when he can no longer resist the temptation to test your draw once more in person, all he does is think of you. 

Cologne. Sweater. Freckles. Curls. 

He feels a stir of agitation when he thinks, momentarily, that you may not be in class today. It would all have been for nothing. He’d have made a complete fool of himself, looking up your school schedule and pining after a complete stranger like an absolute moron…

What he identifies to be utter terror slams into his gut when you wander out of the music hall, smiling and giving a sweet giggle to a friend who’s amused you. If the possibility of missing you had made him anxious, actually seeing you full on was like a punch to the throat. 

Wide, pretty teeth. Too much lip gloss. Rosy-nosed. Bundled into a puffer coat.

Eyes the color of sunshine. 

“Hello,” he says, having astral-projected forward until he is standing right in front of you, blocking the sidewalk without remembering a single step. “I’m Damian Wayne.” 

Your lanky friend stifles a chuckle, and you haltingly reply, “Um… okay?”  

His mind goes blank. Most times, that’s all he has to say. Especially if he’s in clothing as flattering as the fitted pea coat that strains over the width of his shoulders and the green gingham scarf that brings out his eyes. He went to the trouble of carefully selecting these pieces this morning, fully intending to avoid speaking to you. 

It’s always wise to plan for the alternative outcome though. 

In this instance, the alternative being the choice to pursue you as a anomaly. After all, you are a drastic variation from the physicality that typically draws his eye. Your body language and reaction to his approach is timid. He doesn’t have patience for pursuing such partners.

Men or women. 

But here he is, in his flattering clothes, gaping at you like a mute fish.  

He has to tilt his head down by a significant measure to meet your eye. He towers over you, bewildered as a new baby calf in its first thunderstorm. His mouth even hangs open slightly. 

Quailing. Confused. Enamored.  

The torrent that bursts out of his mouth on a tide of pure social panic will humiliate him until the end of his days: “I saw you in the library on Monday, and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since. You’re beautiful. Are you wearing men’s cologne? If so, is it your boyfriend’s? If not, are you busy tomorrow night?” 


	6. Even More So (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you are having a good day!! Can I please request “Person A doodling on Peron B’s arm while not paying attention in class” from the high school prompt list with Damian Wayne? Maybe with Damian as person A? Just do what feels right to you! Love your writing!! You are an amazing person!! ❤️❤️  
> -anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! I was super-duper hoping somebody would select this one and ask me to have Dami draw on the reader 😂😂😂 
> 
> That’s literally the first scenario that came into my head when I browsed this prompt list, and I am so thrilled that we were thinking along the same lines. 
> 
> Just FYI: Damian is a senior in this fic. That means 18. One more time, for those in the back, that means 18 years of age. 
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime, @possiblyelven, @sweetspiderboy, @thepuckishrogue

AP chemistry is your favorite. Not only because chemistry is one of your four great loves (making the classwork more fun than challenging), but because another of your great loves is your lab partner. 50% of the things that make life worth living surround you during third hour, and you soak it in like a fat baby kitten tucked into a sunny windowsill.

Damian sits close beside you, closer than he often prefers in social settings. You can feel the heat come off him in waves scented by his subtle cologne and the spicy soap he likes to wash with in the morning. Today he proudly sports a new crest of intense bruises that meander in a vibrant display all the way down the right side of his face. New injuries concern you less than absences, as the lack of his presence signifies the sort of wound one ought to worry about. If he makes it into school, he’s usually okay. While his boldness in physical proximity is a delight, you fear that it’s somehow related to a sense of anxiety or insecurity on his part. Perhaps the night before was particularly traumatic? 

Regardless, you thank your lucky stars that he’s here with you instead of… the alternative. 

Your knee is sidled nice and snug against his beneath the lab table, and he’s got your left arm spread across his lap. At first you were confused and resisted his gentle, though insistent, move to reposition your limb over his own. He’s staring straight ahead too, refusing to acknowledge your inquisitive look. It is only as he begins to run his fingers up and down your forearm, tickling and comforting all at once, that you go lax. 

Ever so carefully, just a whisper of his skin against yours, he traces the mainline of veins over the soft center flesh on the underside or your arm. Up over your wrist and into your palm, then back down again. He spreads your hand wide, catching each knuckle with a thumb and forefinger. He rolls your joints firmly between his fingertips, and you go tingly and half-asleep before ten minutes passes.

The teacher calls your name directly, and you jolt. Half retracting your arm before Damian’s firm grip locks it in place, you mentally scramble with an embarrassing number of um-s before he clears his throat and answers the prompt for you. Dr. Leavell purses his lips and squints, begrudgingly accepting the answer and turning to face the whiteboard. 

You feel as though he saw right through the table to your hand in your boyfriend’s lap. Not that anything like that is happening, just that the professor seems to somehow know you were being distracted via PDA. 

Damian begins the same soothing ministrations anew, attempting to win back the ground he lost when the damned teacher called you out. Unfortunately, however, the embarrassment of fumbling in front of the entire class leaves you in less of a mood for affection. He accepts this with a mild sigh, but still does not release you entirely.

With your fingers tangled in those of his far hand, he snags his pen from the counter top. The little metal nib is cold. The first touch of it to your skin further causes you to squirm out of his space. He cannot explain what possesses him in this moment, only that he is ruled by the overwhelming desire to mark you in someway. 

To hold you. 

To keep some part of you because he’s flagged it with a piece of himself.

This is why men buy their partners jewelry and such, he surmises. To see something of themselves upon their partner’s physical person. A reminder to everyone who looks, including themselves, that the person wearing their token is theirs. Their own. No one else’s. 

He almost died last night, well and truly. And while he was in the process of almost dying, he thought about having no claim to you whatsoever beyond the memories you’d hold of him. 

Memories fade, and so do lost loves. 

He does not want to lose you. 

If he managed to catch you between classes, as were his intentions this morning, he would have marked you in a profoundly more lasting way in the nearest broom closet. Or equipment shed. Or the backseat of his car.

He ran late though, sore from a sound beating and the sleep of a man recovering from such. Second period was in full swing by the time he graced the campus, and he found the patience to wait for chemistry to see you.

Now, as you glance beneath the lab table to see his work, he elegantly scrawls what he remembers of Talia’s favorite love poem into your skin. The blue ink is sickly on your complexion, and he does not care. The characters of written Arabic are filled with beauty. When their meaning amounts to tenderness and intimacy, they are even more so.


	7. Before Jason Gets the Chance (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jinkies-its-a-writer asked: Hello! I'd like to make a request for your drabble challenge if I could! Hmmm... maybe 49 with older Damian, please?
> 
> 49\. “Safety first. What are you? FIVE?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, this request is an oldie-but-goodie, huh? Been saving this one in my drafts for a good handful of months now, eh???
> 
> I’m not gonna’ use the quote exactly, but the gist is there. 
> 
> Sorry ‘bout that xD
> 
> I hope you love it! Even if it’s quick!!!
> 
> Tag List: @nxttime , @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls, and @sesquipedalian-aficionado (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)  

 

Damian stands outside of the door to the masquerade’s venue. He’s blocking the entrance. He can’t let you in there. Not dressed like that. 

Not with Jason inside. 

He can’t believe you’re doing this to him. That you are really, actually going to do this to him.

Your hair is tugged into pigtails that are too high up on your head. They’re sprayed black and red. You’re in torn remnants of clothing that amount to fishnets, holographic rave shorts that cover less than some bathing suits, and a T-shirt that was sold out of stores after Harley Quinn was photographed robbing a bank in it.

Damian hadn’t realized just how much you really looked like Quinn until you were doing it intentionally. And you do  _really_ look like her. If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe you were related.       

“Do not!” he blurts, staring in unabashed horror as you make for the door behind him. 

You laugh a halting, somewhat irritated laugh. “Damian, c’mon!” You gesture at the handle, while your other hand anchors to the hip you jut out in protest. “You invited me to the Halloween party, remember? Now you don’t want to let me in?”

“Uh-” his words fail him. 

His eyes stick to the obscene amount of your belly and thighs exposed in the alarmingly well-done Harley costume, and he has the good grace to be ashamed about it. It’s nothing short of a miracle that the smeared, clownish makeup can’t render you less appealing. He’s disappointed in himself for the length of time he requires to mush his brain into higher function.

An ultimatum is the clincher that snaps him into focus: “Dude? Let me in or I’m going home.” 

“Don’t go, I was only-” and then, in his panic and concern with the social repercussions of his family’s first introduction to his _first_ girlfriend,while she looks the way you’re looking, Jonathan Kent comes out of his mouth. “It’s just that this door is… sticky. It’s not opening well. I’ll open it for you- because of safety reasons.” 

He wants to hit himself in the face with the door. He should do that while he has the chance. You are not mollified by his poor excuse, but you are willing to let it slide. 

For this, he is grateful. 

You snort, shaking your head and making your hair bounce wildly. “Well, go ahead. Safety first, because we’re five, I guess.”

Somebody kill him. Kill him now, before Jason gets the chance…  


	8. Why Would You Do This? (Imagine Request)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Best Friends (bonus childhood best friends) and Damian? if this is the kinda of ask you’re looking for lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It totally is the kind of ask I’m looking for! Thank you for this!!!
> 
>  Tag List: @nxxttime , @possiblyelven , @thepuckishrogue , @jinkies-its-a-writer, @queeniepearls, and @sesquipedalian-aficionado (If you want to be tagged, let me know! For more fics, check out my masterlist.)

 

“Well, don’t be upset!” you laugh at him; a blustery, dismissive sound. “I’m only curious.” 

Damian stares at you, unsure and inexplicably unable to react. 

He knows that his face is stretched into a cartoonish expression of disbelief. His eyes have gone so wide that the cool morning air in the sunroom stings them, and he can feel a disgusted curl lifting his left nostril. He’s not sure what his mouth is doing. 

Safe to assume it’s not a flattering articulation…  

You’ve never asked him something like that before. 

The two of you don’t ask each other things like that! 

Rather, he never expected that one or the other of you would engage such a baser form of conversation. Certainly not before 7 am.  

What-ifs and body preferences are not safely discussed by teenagers who respectively portray the genders that most attract the other. Regardless of the plutonic connection, more often than not it leads to misunderstandings and uncomfortable confusion for all parties.

This much about interacting with female companions his age, he knows. 

You tut at him, a show of superior composure while he continues to flounder. “I just wondered, Damian, that’s all. You don’t have to answer if you don’t wan-”

“Why were you wondering about that?” he interjects. “And  _what_ possessed you to ask me about it over breakfast?” 

Taking a graceful sip of your coffee, which always contains a blasphemous amount of milk, in Damian’s opinion, you shrug. “We’ve been friends since middle school, Damian. I didn’t think that there was a question I  _couldn’t_ ask you.” Your point is emphasized with a little shake of your head. “I mean, think about it: I sleep without a bra on at your house. Your mother’s kidnapped me. We’ve changed our clothes in front of each other.”

“Oh, one time!” Damian rolls his eyes. “We had very little say in the matter, as I recall.”

 “The kidnapping or the being naked?” you ask with a wry quirk of your brow.  

“Both!” he answers, squinting and pointing his finger at you with deep accusation. “Either. It works for both.” 

“Look,” you chuckle, raising your palms in surrender. “You held up a blanket to hide me while I peed off of a road in some godforsaken stretch of Kansas. I didn’t realize that asking you if you liked bigger boobs was off-limits.” 

Damian internally cringes so profoundly that he is, again, struck silent. You manage to contentedly eat half of your blueberry muffin before he asks once more, “But why? Why would you do this?”

It’s your turn to squint. “I dunno’ if I should say. You’re being weird, and I don’t want to upset you anymore.”

“I’m not upset!” he crows, only sparing a panicked, sidelong glance to be sure that his raised voice didn’t pique the interest of anyone a few yards away in the kitchen. 

“Oh-key.” Your voice is mocking, low and croaky in an obvious jab to the credibility of his statement. 

He hisses across the table, “Tell me why you want to know, and I’ll tell you.” 

“Promise?” you press, not lowering your tone to match his whisper. “Give me your word that you won’t get all awkward and huffy?” 

He debates this request, soothed to see the blurred figure of Pennyworth leave the kitchen from your side of the glass dividing wall. He settles his full attention on you once more, a stern expression having taken hold of his face. 

“You have my word,” he pouts. 

It is your turn to shift uncomfortably. You break eye contact and flick some lingering crumbs from your fingertips. You sniff and take another drink of your coffee. 

A larger drink. 

One might even call it a gulp… 

“I ser-woo-lucking,” you mumble into your mug, still not meeting his eye. 

Damian leans toward you with enough violence to lift him out of his chair and balance his weight on the heels of his hands while he stoops over the table. It is an unintentionally imposing posture, but his frustration has well gotten the better of him at this point. 

“What did you just say to me?” he demands.

You wince, setting your cup back in place and straightening your spine. You clear your throat, actively ignoring the heat that rises in your face and the sweat you feel prickling your palms in spite of the hot mug’s absence. 

“I saw you looking,” you repeat conversationally, staring him dead in the eye. “I saw you looking at me last night after I changed into my pajamas. You were staring.” 

You cannot tell if Damian heard you. His facial expression stagnated somewhere between horror and disassociative vacancy. His eyes are open, but it’s pretty clear that he’s no longer home.

Regardless, the words continue to tumble out of your mouth. All you can do is try to keep them from sounding accusatory or, God forbid, insecure. 

“I mean, it’s fine. I’m not upset. It didn’t weird me out or anything. Sometimes I stare too.” Your hands fall over your chest. “These haven’t always been there. We both know this. Like, not even last summer. You had bigger boobs than I did, then mine got  _weirdly_ big, which is normal for women in my family, by the way. You’ve seen my mother and my aunts and…” 

You catch yourself rambling parts of the conversations you’d been having with said mother and aunts about  _growing pains_ and the like.

You pump the brake on that, deciding that now is not the time to attempt that particular brand of communication. Redirecting your initial statement and finishing out your train of thought, you declare, “Listen, you were staring, which is fine, and it made me wonder, and so I asked.” 

Damian found his seat again during your lecture. While nothing in this world could offer him comfort after having been so thoroughly called out, he figured he could at least have the decency to refrain from denouncing his less than savory attention to the changes your physicality had seen recently. 

The quiet stretches between you for a moment. Damian does not want to let this arduous conversation draw out a second more, but it takes him some time to compose his answer. Even still, it is a woeful assault on his usually unabashed demeanor.  

“I like your- I mean that I find myself preferring…rather…. you have-” He swallows thickly, and does not look toward your person whatsoever. “You have pleasing proportions. I did not mean to stare. It hadn’t occurred to me before, and then I saw… and I kept looking.” 

You snort. He expects backlash or a reprimand of some kind. Perhaps even mockery. He feels like he ought to be mocked. 

Instead, you reach out and pat his shoulder. 

“Dude,” you say, huffing a relieved breath. “I already told you I wasn’t mad. You were curious, and then I got curious. Again… not grossed out. I don’t feel like you were creeping on me.”

“I wasn’t!” he involuntarily insists.

“Right,” you agree with wholehearted reassurance. 

Damian nods, realizing that he will never, ever manage to look toward you without this twist in his stomach ever again. 


End file.
